


The Midnight Aviator: A World War I Adventure

by RowenaZahnrei



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, Mutant Manifestation, Mutant Powers, Rivalry, Royal Flying Corps, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowenaZahnrei/pseuds/RowenaZahnrei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1916 and the mysterious Midnight Aviator is terrorizing the British Royal Flying Corps. Can Captain Logan and his young observer, Robert Drake, discover the truth behind the Aviator's frightening legend and make it back to British lines alive?  COMPLETE! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men. Please don't sue me or steal my story!
> 
> NOTE: This story takes place in France in 1916, right in the middle of World War I.
> 
> NOTE II: Much of the inspiration for this story was drawn from the account of the war in the air set down by Cecil Lewis in his autobiography Sagittarius Rising.

The Midnight Aviator  
By Rowena Zahnrei

Part One

"Drake! Wake up, we're going."

Robert Drake shot up so quickly he nearly fell off the narrow cot. Squinting against the glare of the rising sun, the young pilot jumped awkwardly to his feet and snapped a smart salute.

"Captain Logan, sir," the flustered seventeen-year-old said, his eyes starting to water as he struggled to bring the shorter officer's backlit silhouette into clearer focus. "I—I'm so sorry sir. I don't know how I could have overslept…"

"At ease, kid," the gruff Canadian grunted, the glowing tip of his cigar seeming to brighten as he stepped out of the sun. "You didn't miss our appointment. And you didn't oversleep neither."

Drake blinked, completely at a loss. 

"Then…then sir, why—"

"No questions," Logan said, already turning to go. "Just get dressed. You're with me today."

"Sir?"

"The airstrip. Ten minutes. I'll be waiting."

*******

The rising sun lent the sky a rich orange glow, bathing the airstrip in golden light. Drake jogged past the gleaming aerodrome to where Captain Logan was running a final check on his machine, breathless and eager to find out why he'd been called out of bed so early.

Finished with his check, the captain tossed his notepad to a yawning mechanic and climbed up into the cockpit.

Logan flew a Morane Parasol, a two-seater monoplane of French design with an eighty horsepower Le Rône rotary engine. Its wing was situated well above the body of the aircraft, which made it extremely useful when taking reconnaissance photographs of enemy positions. However, despite its advantages and general reliability, the Morane had a reputation among pilots as a death trap. It had to be consciously flown every second; if the pilot ever let go of the stick even for a moment, rather than simply leveling out, the aeroplane would fall at once into a nosedive.(1) To control a Morane required constant vigilance and a careful hand, and the fact that Logan had managed to build up such an impressive record of success behind its cockpit was a testament to his enormous courage and skill. 

Drake couldn't keep himself from grinning.

"Fantastic!" he exclaimed, rushing over rest an awed hand against the side of the captain's famous kite. "Don't tell me you're honestly planning to take me up in your Morane, sir!"

"Quit your slobberin' and climb in," the captain growled with a grim chomp on the cigar lodged between his teeth. "Old man Xavier's got a mission for us. You're to be my observer this mornin'."

Drake nearly passed out right there. Captain Logan's observer? Him? Sitting behind the greatest ace in the Royal Flying Corps? Pointing out enemy troop locations, warning him of the approach of German aeroplanes? It was too incredible to be true. But from the way the rugged Canadian was glaring at him, it had to be.

"What are you waiting for, Christmas?" the captain snarled. "Get up here!"

"Yessir!" Drake squeaked, clambering into place and banging his knee hard against the curved back of the pilot's chair in the process. But the pain was nothing next to his elation.

"If I may ask sir," the teenager called out as the captain began to taxi down the strip. "Where exactly are we going?"

"I'll tell you when we're in the air," the captain shouted back. "Now shut-up."

*******

The Morane buzzed through the air some 5,000 feet above the ground. Drake peered down over the side, reflecting how strange it was to be able to look down without a wing getting in the way of the view. The seventeen-year-old had been with the RFC now for almost a year, but no matter how many times he rose up past the clouds, he would never cease to be amazed at how tiny everything looked on the ground below.

The entire battlefield was laid out before him like a giant brown, black, and greenish canvas that stretched on forever. He could see both sets of trenches—those of the allies and the enemy—parallel gouges in the earth separated by the barren, cratered waste of No Man's Land. Beyond the front lines ran a complicated network of communications trenches, then came the second-line trenches followed by more communications trenches, and finally the third-line trenches. It was a strange, almost surreal sight, horrific and fascinating at the same time. All the contours, hills, and valleys that were of such strategic significance on the ground lost all meaning in the air.(2) It really made one wonder…

"Hey, kid," Logan's gruff voice broke into his wandering thoughts. "You're awful quiet back there."

"What? Oh, sorry sir," Drake said quickly. "I was just thinking."

Logan nodded. 

"Flying kinda has a way of putting things in perspective," he said. "But that's no excuse for lettin' your mind wander. I need you sharp and focused, especially considerin' where we're headed."

"Where are we headed, sir?" Drake asked. "You still haven't told me."

"Haig's getting ready to launch a new offensive," the captain told him, referring to Sir Douglas Haig, the Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force fighting in France. The Royal Flying Corps was attached to that service, its main function being to act as the eyes of the infantry. "It's up to us to scope out and photograph the enemy position. We'll be flying over the German lines today, kid."

"Fantastic!" Drake exclaimed, his pulse quickening at the very thought. "I can't believe it—after all these months of training, a real mission at last!"

"I wouldn't get too excited just yet," Logan cautioned. "I still haven't told you everything."

"What else is there?"

Logan snorted, turning his head just far enough to shoot the teenager a look from the corner of his eye. 

"Old man Xavier's been keeping this part quiet," he said. "Didn't want to start a panic among the ranks…"

"A panic?" Drake frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Der Nachtflieger, that's what I'm talking about," the Captain said grimly. "Though you prolly know him better as the Midnight Aviator. He's out there, waiting just behind the lines. And we're about to fly straight into his turf."

Drake stared, truly stunned by the captain's words. 

The Midnight Aviator was the stuff of legend among the British fliers. Together, he and his striking black and red Fokker aeroplane were the menace of the RFC. The prospect of actually facing him in the air was overwhelming. 

Drake swallowed.

"Sir," he said, forcing his suddenly shaky voice back to its usual register. "You've faced the Midnight Aviator before. What can you tell me about him?"

"He's the greatest ace the Germans have," Logan said. "Even the Red Baron had to acknowledge it after the guy managed to make a perfect landing in the dead of night with no lights to guide him. Dumb luck, if you ask me, but that stunt's what earned him his name. Other than that, hardly anything is known about him. Not even his real name. Just a lot of hearsay."

"Is it true that no one's ever seen his face?" Drake asked. "That's what I've heard the others saying. They say he always wears a long coat with a deep hood, and that he never takes off his gloves."

"That might be true," the captain acknowledged. "I was there the one time we managed to bring him down. His kite was a blazing inferno. We all expected he'd been killed. But when we got to the site, the Aviator was nowhere to be found. I could buy he was left with some pretty disfiguring burns."

"Maybe," Drake said, not quite convinced. "But what about the other stories? They say he can vanish in a puff of smoke, like the Devil himself! And Madrox told me the Aviator can outmaneuver shells and bullets with such uncanny precision, it's as though he can sense where they're going to strike ahead of time!"

"Let's not get carried away now," Logan frowned. "It's probably Jerry(3) spreading most of that rot anyway, tryin' to build up the mythos. The Aviator's a man, just like you and me. Don't forget that."

"Yes, sir," Drake said, but even though that ended the conversation, it didn't stop the teenager's imagination as he rode along in the back of the aeroplane. 

What was the Midnight Aviator really like? And even more pressing-would he, Robert Drake, have the courage to stand up to him if they should meet in the skies?

*******

It was still early when they reached the German lines. Drake could see very little troop movement among the trenches, and the skies were completely clear.

"All right, let's get this done quick," Logan called back, his hand already on the camera's ring. The camera was a large, square box the color of mahogany clamped to the outside of the fuselage just beside the pilot. The pilot looked through a ball and cross-wire finder to sight the picture, then pulled a ring at the end of a cord to make an exposure. To change the plates, he had to stretch his arm out into winds of up to seventy miles per hour and push the camera's handle back and forth, flying all the while with his left hand. It was a tricky procedure, but Captain Logan was an expert in the as-yet primitive art of aerial photography.(4)

One of the massive disadvantages of photographing the battleground from the air was the necessity of having to fly straight for extended periods of time. For a long while, Logan and Drake proceeded with their mission unmolested, but all too soon Drake spotted a small puff of gray smoke just below them.

"Archie!(5)" he cried. "They've got us in their sights!"

"It's all right," Logan called back, apparently unconcerned and more than preoccupied with operating the camera. "They don't have the range yet. We've got some time."

"Um…sir…no we don't," Drake responded in a choked voice. "Look to the left. Aren't those—"

"Damn!" Logan snarled, abandoning the camera and turning his full attention to the Morane's controls.

"They're Fokkers, sir. Five of them."

"Grab the gun, kid, and hang on tight," the captain called back. "You're in for some fancy flyin'."

The Fokkers were coming up close on their tail, hovering like flies in the clear, early morning sky. All too soon, they were near enough for Drake to make out their markings. The sight of one striped aeroplane in particular made his blood run cold.

"Sweet Jesus," he breathed, a shudder of fear running up his spine. "It's him! Captain Logan, it's the Midnight Aviator! He's right behind us!"

"Keep your head, kid," Logan shouted, swerving the Morane back and forth, making it more difficult of the Fokkers to aim at them. "If you let the stories get to you, you're giving him the advantage. Focus on firing. If you can bring a few of them down, we might actually stand a chance of getting out of this in one piece!"

"AAHHHH!" Drake shrieked despite himself as a bullet ricocheted off the Morane's windshield, leaving a spiderweb of fine cracks in the thick Triplex. Grabbing firm hold of his gun, he poured all his terror and adrenaline into firing-

To Be Continued...


	2. Part Two

Part Two:

The swarm of enemy planes was closing in fast, spreading out to encircle the Morane, zooming past and around them in a blur of color and speed. 

Drake fired and fired, cold sweat pouring from his brow as smoking bullets jumped at him from every angle, shooting past his head and shoulders. The Fokker to his left burst into smoke and flame, but Drake didn't have time to watch it fall because just then, the Morane seemed to drop out from under him, leaving his stomach far above. Drake gasped and clung to his gun for dear life, painful pressure building in his ears as Logan pulled them out of the steep dive and into a daring loop. Disoriented, Drake fought to keep his focus, and his stomach, steady as Logan sent them roaring back towards the remaining Fokkers upside down.

The Aviator's plane was just ahead. Despite his fear, Drake could feel himself smiling. The young officer's breath was coming quick and his heart was pounding. The crackling wind stung his face as he locked on target and opened fire, his bullets ripping holes through the striped aeroplane's side as Logan flipped them upright and did a lightening turn, coming around for another pass. 

But now, there were two enemy machines chasing their tail, splitting up to come at them from either side. 

Logan swerved, but smoke suddenly filled the cockpit. The propeller cut out for a brief moment, then the Morane began to shudder. Logan gritted his teeth in a snarl.

"Easy, girl," he grunted, his knuckles whitening with the effort of keeping the smoking plane under control. To Drake, he shouted, "They're coming 'round again, kid! If we're gonna lose them, we're gonna have to go into a spin; make them think we crashed!"

"Spin! Are you mad!" Drake exclaimed. "We're behind enemy lines, sir! If we land here—"

"This ain't a debate, kid," the captain snarled, dodging a third Fokker by speeding straight into a thick, white cloud. The Fokker whizzed past them, then turned, heading back to the Aviator to regroup for another attack. "We're outnumbered, and this crate's been shot up bad. Just keep up the shootin'. Those Hun bastards might force us down, but we'll sure as hell take a few of them out with us, got that? Now get ready, kid! We're goin' back in! Gotta make this look convincin', after all!"

"Yes, sir!" Drake shouted back, deeply terrified, yet strangely exhilarated at the same time. He had never felt so alert, so sharply focused, so reckless. At that moment, he felt he could take on the entire German air fleet and still have adrenaline to spare.

Logan's Morane burst out of the cloudbank with guns blazing, zooming towards the hovering Fokkers from below. The ammunition pierced the enemy machines; dark smoke burst from first one, then another—but the Aviator's scarlet-striped aeroplane dodged Drake's bullets with a dexterity that seemed almost prescient, flames spitting from its guns as the hooded shadow in the cockpit sent his own bullets flying straight toward their engine.

Logan pulled up hard, coughing as the smoke leaking from the front of the shuddering plane blew across his face. Performing another lightening turn, he came up under the Aviator's blind spot, providing Drake a clear target. 

Clenching his teeth, Drake drew in his breath and opened fire—only to gasp in horror when nothing happened.

"Oh—oh God," he exclaimed, fussing with the gun with trembling hands. "It's jammed—Captain, the gun's jammed!"

"Damn!" Logan roared, frustration burning in his dark eyes. "And here comes the other one."

"I—I just need a minute," Drake shouted back, his young voice cracking as he forced his numb, shaking fingers to work. He felt so cold all of a sudden, as though the sweat on his forehead had turned to ice. It had to be his nerves, he knew, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong with him—and getting rapidly wronger.

"We don't have a minute!" Logan retorted sharply. "We're getting outta this mess, and now! Prepare for the spin!"

Drake started to reply, but the strangest feeling washed over him. It wasn't quite nausea, but it froze him to the core. A sharp, stinging pain shot through his fingers—and he realized the gun he had just been fiddling with was encased in a thick coating of clear, solid ice. 

Too stunned to think, too frightened to react, Drake's arms seemed to take on a life of their own as, on impulse, he aimed his palms at the Aviator's oncoming Fokker and fired a stream of ice straight into his propeller. The whirring blades struggled against the onslaught, but it took only seconds before they sputtered to a full stop, frozen solid. 

For a moment—a brief, timeless moment—Drake found himself staring straight into the startled, bewildered eyes of the Midnight Aviator: eyes that, through the windshield, seemed to have an odd, yellow sheen. And then, the vibrantly striped machine began to fall, its front end top-heavy with a blanket of ice at least a foot thick on all sides.

Logan stared, unable to believe his eyes. 

"What the hell?" 

The Aviator's striped Fokker was plummeting toward the ground with deadly speed, the ice at its prow gleaming silver in the sun. It was an impossible sight, but the captain didn't have time to wonder at it. The last remaining Fokker had turned tail at the sight of his leader's fall, but Logan's Morane was shaking in earnest now. He had to bring her down while he still could, or risk plummeting after the unfortunate Aviator. 

Clutching the controls with both hands, the captain prepared to execute the most challenging landing of his military career. Only when his feet were once again firmly on the ground would he allow himself to question how the Aviator's propellers had come to be stuck in a block of solid ice.

To Be Continued... Stay Tuned!


	3. Part Three

Part Three:

Captain Logan's Morane was riddled with bullet holes. 

The Canadian grunted as he passed a thin twig through one of the largest. Judging from its trajectory, the bullet that had caused that hole had come within inches of ripping through his thigh. Not that it would have mattered much to him in the long run, with his accelerated healing ability, but the added distraction would have made it that much harder to bring the smoking plane down in anything like one piece.

"Well, old girl," he said, resting his palm against the charred fuselage, "we had a good run. I'm just sorry it had to end like this."

Drake watched the surly pilot say his farewells to his famous aeroplane, his heart aching. He knew what the captain was going to do. He had already detached the camera from the totaled plane. All that was left now was to make certain his proud machine never fell into the hands of the enemy.

Reaching into his pack, Captain Logan pulled out a No. 5 grenade—commonly known as a Mills bomb. Holding down the strike lever, he pulled out the safety pin and lobbed the grenade into the cockpit as though he were bowling a cricket ball.

"Get down, kid!" he shouted, diving into the brush beside Drake. Barely two seconds later, the grenade detonated, exploding into deadly fragments as the Morane burst into flame.

"Oh, sir…" Drake winced, his voice subdued as they watched the Morane burn. "Your aeroplane…"

"Don't sweat it kid," the Canadian grunted, his eyes fixed on the flaming ruins. "She would have wanted it this way."

"Quite right. It seems a shame, though. The capture of such a legendary aircraft would certainly have bolstered the morale of the German people."

Drake and Logan jumped at the accented voice speaking from directly behind them. Logan immediately clambered to his feet, pulling his pistol from its holster in a smooth, lightening-quick movement.

"You!" he snarled, glaring fiercely at the man who had spoken. 

Drake gawped, his jaw dropping. That long coat, those thick gloves—there was no doubt in Drake's mind; they were standing face to face with the Midnight Aviator!

"Bitte, mein Herr, is that any way to greet a fellow pilot," the Aviator said, raising his gloved hands against Logan's deadly aim. "I am in the same situation as you."

Logan smirked.

"I wouldn't say that, bub. After all, there's two of us, and we're not the ones lookin' down the barrel of a gun."

The Aviator chuckled.

"Ja, all right," he said. "You have me there, mein Herr. But I have an advantage you lack."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I don't know if you noticed when you were going down, but you are currently behind the German lines, mein Freund," the pilot said. "And I happen to know that this place is frequently patrolled."

Logan frowned.

"Is that supposed to scare us?" he grunted. "'Cause it ain't workin'."

The Aviator shook his head beneath his deep hood. 

"Nein, nein," he said. "What I am doing is I am trying to make you an offer, ja? We can call a truce. I will keep you safe from the patrols, ja, and you will tell me how that boy," he pointed to Drake, "managed to encase half my kite in a solid block of ice. Although, I suspect we both already know the answer…"

"You must be nuts," Logan said, his pistol never wavering. "No truce, bub. Two against one means you belong to us. As of right now, you can consider yourself a prisoner of war. Drake!"

Drake snapped out of his stunned daze with a little jump. 

"Yessir!" he slurred, a little too loudly. He winced, flushing right up to his hairline.

"Search 'im," the captain ordered brusquely. "Then tie 'im up. And make the knots good and tight. This time, he's not gettin' away from me."

"Yes, sir," Drake acknowleged, digging at once into the emergency pack for some rope. He couldn't be sure, but as he approached the Midnight Aviator, he thought he could see him smirking under his hood.

The pilot gave a dramatic sigh.

"Ach, very well," he said. "Have it your way if you must. But I warn you, mein Herr—there are no bonds that can hold me."

"These will," Logan assured him darkly, his flinty eyes glinting with amusement as he watched Drake shyly pat down the German officer in search of concealed weapons or official papers. "I'll make sure of it."

"There's nothing sir," Drake reported at last, moving to tie the Aviator's gloved hands together. "He's not even wearing a pistol holster."

"I abhor guns," the Aviator proclaimed stiffly. 

Logan shot him a suspicious glare, then noticed what Drake was doing.

"No, kid, not over the gloves!" he snapped. "He could slip out of that without even breakin' a sweat. Git over here and take the gun."

The Aviator chucked as the pistol changed hands, but made no move to flee. He simply watched, relaxed and confident, as Logan stalked over to him with the rope.

"You gotta tie his wrists, kid," the captain explained, "or else—"

He trailed off, frowning as he got a good look at the Aviator's brown, leather gloves. Something about them was clearly off. They seemed a good three or four sizes too large for a man of the Aviator's lean build, yet the seams were oddly stretched...

"I'd leave those alone, if I were you," the Aviator advised. 

Logan ignored him, and yanked both gloves off. As he did, the Aviator made a quick motion, concealing his bare hands in the long sleeves of his coat. But Logan was more concerned with the gloves.

"What the…" 

He frowned, reaching into one and pulling out some cotton padding from the middle finger. 

"These gloves are stuffed. Look at this—the two middle fingers of each glove are stuffed with cotton!"

"I told you to leave them alone," the Aviator said. "Without my gloves, my hands are not the most attractive sight."

"Let me be the judge of that," Logan snarled, tossing the stuffed gloves aside and grabbing the German's arm. "Hold out your hands now, or I'll tell Drake over there to shoot you in the leg."

Drake swallowed in alarm, struggling to keep the gun steady as the Aviator shot the captain a dirty look from beneath his hood.

"Here, then," the Aviator snapped, thrusting his hands out behind him, wrists together and ready to be tied up. 

Drake gasped, nearly dropping the pistol. Even Logan blinked in surprise.

"Just what the hell are you, bub," he said, staring in disbelief at the German's startlingly deformed hands. They were like nothing Logan had ever seen before. Each hand sported only three thick fingers, and they were covered in a fine coat of fuzzy, indigo fur. His blue palms were callused, and his nails were thick and blunt.

"I am a man, the same as you," the Aviator retorted, fixing the Canadian with a sharp significant glare. "And, I suspect, the same as your young friend over there." He nodded toward Drake.

Returning the Aviator's shadowed glare with a suspicious one of his own, Logan finished tying the pilot's fuzzy wrists with a final tug that made the German wince, then reached up to pull down the Aviator's protective hood.

"My God," Drake gasped, his face paling dramatically as the German's true features were revealed. "It's true. It's all true! He's a—a—a—"

"No, he ain't kid," Logan stated, sniffing the air around the scowling blue German. After a moment, he smirked, then looked the indigo Aviator straight in his glowing, golden eyes.

"Figures," he snorted. "Though I'm pretty surprised those stiff-necked Hun bastards let a freak like you in their military."

The pilot glared back.

"They did not want to—at first," he said. "But once they saw what I could do in the air, they had no choice."

Logan laughed out loud. 

"You've sure got guts, I'll give you that," he said, slapping the Aviator on the shoulder. The German staggered a little at the impact, revealing yet another surprise to his gaping captors as he quickly regained his balance.

"Is—is that a t-tail?" Drake stammered, unconsciously lowering the pistol.

"Ja, of course it is a tail," the Aviator snapped, a bit irritably. "But I did not come to you to discuss my…singular attributes."

"Heh. That's one way of puttin' it," Logan snarked. 

The Aviator glared, his long, spaded tail lashing the air behind his coat.

"I want to know what happened to my plane," the German declared, the tips of his pointed ears beginning to purple in his annoyance. It was clear he was feeling rather vulnerable without the protection of his hood.

"Why should we tell you anything?" Logan asked, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

"I am already your prisoner, ja?" the German pointed out. "What have you to lose by answering a few questions?"

"Depends on the questions, don't it?" Logan retorted. "And speakin' of questions, I have a few of my own. How did you survive that crash a few months back? I investigated that site personally, and we never found any sign of you. Not even a footprint!"

The German's lean face twisted into a smirk. 

"Well, we all have our secrets, don't we, mein Herr?"

Logan fixed the Aviator with his most threatening glare, which the German met with a fierce golden glower of his own. Several long, tense moments passed before Logan stepped back with a slight smile, a gleam of respect in his flinty eye.

"Hey, Nachtflieger," he said, "you hungry?"

"I could eat," the Aviator allowed, also smiling.

Drake looked from one man to the other, confused at this sudden change in their previously hostile demeanors. The teenager didn't have much time to ponder, though, because the captain was already calling for him to break out the rations.

"No, wait," the Aviator spoke up. "Not here. A patrol will be by any moment to investigate your crash site. Come with me."

Logan nodded, but Drake frowned. 

"Hey, wait up," he said. "Why should we trust you?"

"Have I not already told you, mein Junge?" the Aviator said. "I want to talk with you—alone."

Drake's frown deepened, but he trailed the two older officers through the tall grass and underbrush without further comment. In his mind, though, he couldn't help reflecting that, for a prisoner of war, the Midnight Aviator seemed unduly self-assured, as though he knew something they didn't. Not only that, but it disturbed him how the captain seemed to be taking to the strange German. It wasn't that he doubted the captain's motives, but he couldn't understand why he seemed so willing to follow the Aviator's lead…

To Be Concluded...


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four:

Eating with the enemy...

Drake shook his head, peering at their prisoner through a scowl. This had to be some kind of breach of protocol. If it wasn't, someone really ought to make it one.

The Aviator had led them safely out of the path of the German patrols, just as he'd promised, and for several minutes after that he'd been intense and watchful, the epitome of soldierly professionalism. But as soon as they were far enough from the road, it was like he became a different person. He was flippant and playful, teasing the captain in ways no one at the British air base would dare.

Drake found it unsettling that he could change his mood so drastically, but what disturbed him most was that the captain actually seemed to like it. He liked this irreverent blue German, this demon in enemy uniform. And he was making no effort to hide it.

They'd come to a stop beneath a closely clustered copse of trees, where Captain Logan gave the order for Drake to break out the emergency rations. The portions were depressingly scanty being shared three ways, and it irked Drake to realize he was apparently the only one bothered. His one reassurance was that Captain Logan seemed unwilling to untie their prisoner long enough to eat.

"Drake," he grunted instead, shooting their prisoner a toothy smirk. "Our guest is hungry. Why don't you give him a hand with that food."

The Aviator smiled.

"No need, mein Freund," he assured Logan. In one smooth motion, he brought his tightly bound hands around his tail and under his legs until he was sitting with them folded on his lap.

Drake nearly dropped his bread, but Logan simply raised an eyebrow.

"Looks like we can add contortionist to your list of talents," he said wryly. "You'd be right at home in the circus, bub. Who knows—could be where we all end up, after this."

Aviator laughed, struggling to swallow a mouthful of cheese so he could talk.

"Funny you should say that," he said at last. "My mother owns a small circus in Bavaria. It is where I grew up, and it is where I plan to return, should it be God's will that I survive this war."

He lowered his eyes for a brief, somber moment, but when he looked back up, his haunted expression had been replaced with an impish grin.

"As we already have the greatest flying Ace in Europe lined up as headliner—namely myself," he teased, "I'm afraid we won't be needing your…singular skills. But if you are ever in need of a job, Logan, mother is always on the lookout for a good spotter. As for your young friend there, I'm sure I could get him a fine position cleaning up after the horses."

Drake shot the German a harsh glare.

"So, what's she like then, this mother of yours?" he sneered. "If she looks anything like you, it isn't any wonder she ended up in a circus. That's where you both belong."

Logan seemed to stiffen at that, but the German just shook his head with a small, dark smile.

"She is a woman of many faces, my mother," was his cryptic retort. "But you are certainly one to talk, mein Junge. After the stunt you pulled today?"

"I didn't do anything!" Drake exclaimed, starting to get defensive. "I don't know what happened to your plane, all right? It wasn't my fault!"

"Oh, but I think it was," the Aviator said, turning a significant look to the piece of bread Drake was squeezing between his hands. "The evidence is there, whether you accept it or not."

Drake glanced down, only to jump to his feet in alarm, dropping the bread as if it had bit him. It landed on the grassy ground with a solid thunk: frozen solid.

"What is this?" Drake demanded, trembling despite himself as he stared at his pale, slightly blue-tinted fingers. "What's going on? I don't understand what's going on!"

"Calm down, kid." Logan winced, rubbing at his ear. "You're gettin' shrill, and I don't like shrill. Just sit down and shut up. That's an order."

"Yes, sir," Drake said weakly, sinking to the ground with his eyes still fixed on his hands.

Logan and the Aviator shared a glance before Logan spoke again.

"I knew there was somethin' different about you kid," he said. "I smelled it on ya from the moment we first met. It was only a matter of time before it manifested. And now, it looks like it finally has."

Drake frowned.

"What do you mean, manifested? Are you saying I smell?"

"Did I give you permission to speak?" Logan snapped.

Drake shook his head.

"Then shut up," the captain said. "I'm tryin' to tell you something important, here."

"Perhaps," the Aviator spoke up, "it would be easier to show him? I am not sure if, in his current state, your words would penetrate."

Logan regarded the German for a moment, considering, then reached into his pack for a knife. Drake watched—first confused, then alarmed—as the rugged soldier drew the knife across his palm, leaving a deep gash in the flesh.

"Captain—!"

"Hush!" Logan snapped. "Just watch."

Before their eyes, the bloody gash miraculously began to knit itself back together, the flesh closing and the skin healing over without leaving so much as a scar. Logan flexed his hand, then let it fall to his side with a satisfied grunt.

Drake gasped.

"Wh-what are you?"

"The question is," Logan corrected, "what are we. There's a lot of folks out there that have peculiar abilities. Some might even go so far as to call them 'powers.' Most look relatively normal, like you an' me. But then there are the real monsters, like Herr Midnight over here."

"I beg your pardon," the German said. "But there are plenty of young Frauleins out there who believe my appearance is quite dashing."

"Prolly thought you were wearin' a costume," Logan retorted dryly.

The Aviator shot him a dirty look.

"Not all of them," he assured him, a far more characteristic smirk spreading across his fuzzy face.

"So, this is why you wanted to talk with me?" Drake burst out, appalled. "Because you think I'm a freak like you? Well, I'm not, all right? I don't know what kind of trick you're trying to pull, but I'm through playing along!"

"This ain't a game, kid," Logan said, glaring him back into subdued silence. "And it ain't a trick, neither. You saw my hand. That was real blood seeping out there. And what about that bread, huh? Bread doesn't spontaneously encase itself in ice. You've got a power, kid. Accept it."

"But—But how?" Drake asked with a frightened, involuntary sob. "Why me?"

"Why any of us?" the Aviator retorted. "I believe there is an American saying: You must make due with the cards you are dealt. Ja?"

"Close enough," Logan said.

"What about you, then?" Drake demanded, turning on the Aviator. "You hide in that coat like it was some kind of protective shield. You're so desperate for acceptance, you've betrayed your country and gotten yourself captured just so you could chat with another freak!"

The Aviator straightened his spine, his tail lashing dangerously behind him.

"I have betrayed nothing," he stated darkly. "I told you why I am here. My plane was frozen, forcing me into a crash landing. I wanted to find the cause."

"Well you found it," Drake snapped. "And you're still a prisoner! And now everyone's going to know what you really are. You'll be on display, in a cage!"

"Drake!" Logan barked, staring the young man straight in the eye. "That's enough!"

"But, sir, why is he helping us?" the young man exclaimed, too upset to care about insubordination. "He led us away from those German patrols. If he hadn't warned us, we'd be his prisoners right now. How do you know he doesn't have something planned?"

"The way I see it," the Aviator volunteered, "we are all flyers here, knights of the air. This is not our battlefield. Here, on the ground, we are just men. Men who share a common experience. Perhaps, instead of railing against this like a frightened child, you should take this opportunity to learn something."

"Yeah?" Drake sneered. "And what could I learn from you?"

The Aviator opened his mouth to speak, then cocked his head with a frown.

"Listen," he said. "Do you hear that?"

"Trucks," Logan confirmed, rising cautiously to his feet. "British trucks, by the sound of 'em. A mile...maybe a mile and a half away?"

"They are coming for you," the German said. "This is our final chance to speak together before the walls of nationality and allegiance are raised once more. Ask me your questions, and I will answer."

"I have a question," Logan said. "You never told me how you managed to walk away from that crash."

The Aviator grinned, fully displaying his pointed teeth.

"I was hoping you'd ask me that," he said, his spaded tail twitching impishly behind him. "Observe."

Jumping to his feet with theatrical grace, the Aviator held out his bound hands-and promptly vanished in a BAMF of sulfur-scented smoke, the knotted rope dropping to the ground as both Logan and Drake stared with their mouths open.

"Where'd he go?" Drake exclaimed, spinning around in an awkward circle.

"I am here, meine Freunde!"

The Aviator waved to them from his perch in the tree above their heads. Grinning like a roguish elf, the blue German swung off the branch to hang upside down from his tail, his hands hidden behind his back.

"So, now you know my secret," he said through his inverted smile. "I warned you there were no bonds that could hold me."

"Why you slippery little—"

The Aviator cut the captain off with a playful tut.

"Young Drake was right about one thing," he said. "I did allow myself to be captured. But it was not merely to chat. While I have enjoyed this opportunity to know my enemies better, my true objective was to obtain this."

Lowering his arms, he dangled Logan's camera several feet above the ground.

The captain let loose with a furious snarl, making a swipe for the bulky machine with the three sharp, bony protrusions that extended out from each of his fists-startling Drake even further.

"Drop that camera, you filthy German thief!"

The Aviator drew in a sharp, wincing breath, apparently considering Logan's demand.

"Well, I could drop it," he allowed. "But I think it would be much more fun simply to do this!"

Vanishing with another theatrical flash, the Aviator reappeared briefly at the base of the neighboring tree, then vanished again, returning to his previous dangling position.

Logan blinked, then gaped, then roared.

The Midnight Aviator had teleported his camera, with the plates containing all his hard-won pictures of the German lines, into the trunk of the tree. Even if they had an axe, it would be impossible to retrieve it in one piece. His mission was a shambles. His beloved plane was a flaming wreck, his pictures were lost—and so, it seemed, was his prisoner.

The blue imp chuckled from his tree branch.

"Well, that's my mission done," he said. "Until we meet again, ja? In the skies!"

And, with a final upside down salute, the grinning German BAMFed away, the smoke dissipating even as the first of the trucks pulled up beside the copse.

"That bastard," Logan rumbled, sounding at once both angry and pained. "That cheeky, blue-skinned, pointy-eared circus freak of a Hun bastard! I'll find him…I'll tear his smug, fuzzy throat out…I'll—"

"So there you are!" the driver called out with unwelcome cheer, waving them over to his truck. "Alive after all! Saw your kite go down—old man Xavier called on us to pick you up on our way back to base. Did you manage to get any pictures?"

Logan growled, fixing the soldier with a fiery glare of death.

The soldier shrank back in his seat, giving the captain plenty of room as he clambered up into the seat beside him. Drake took his place in the back, subdued and thoughtful.

"Just drive," Logan ordered, his dark eyes fixed on the dusty road ahead.

"Yessir," the driver nodded, shifting into gear and rejoining the convoy without another word.

For several minutes, they rode in bumpy silence. And then, Drake spoke up.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said.

"Huh?" Logan frowned, his own train of thought derailed. "What's that?"

"I said, I'm sorry, sir," Drake repeated. "The Aviator was right. I acted like a child back there. I was frightened, and I didn't want to listen. And I'm sorry. If you're still willing to teach me after all this-"

"Eh," Logan waved it off. "No need to apologize, kid. You were right about that creep. Still can't think why I trusted him."

"Well, as Germans go, he really wasn't so bad," Drake allowed. "Actually sir, if you'll forgive me, in many ways, he reminded me of you."

Drake tensed as soon as the words were out of his mouth, afraid he'd offended the gruff Canadian. But when he finally turned his head, Drake could see the captain's dark eyes were gleaming, not with hatred, but with grudging respect.

"I have to admit," he rumbled. "That cheeky sneak-thief won this round. Beat us fair and square. But take my word for it, kid..."

He smirked, reaching into his pocket for a cigar.

"...Next time, he won't be so lucky."

Drake blinked. Us... Captain Logan actually used the word 'us'. Almost as if...

As if he considered them a team...

Drake smiled and sat back in his seat, turning his eyes to the vast, blue sky.

"Yes, sir," he said.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> References:  
> (1) Cecil Lewis, Sagittarius Rising, (Harrisburg: Stackpole Books, 1963), 47-50.  
> (2) Lewis, 63.  
> (3) Slang for "Germans".  
> (4) Lewis, 65.  
> (5) Slang for "Anti-Aircraft Battery".


End file.
